


Stormbringer

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: AU, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Illustrated, Slow Burn, Tags will be updated accordingly, eventually the story will reach the events of the main game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 13:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14238108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Upon the day she comes of age, Mòrag tries to resonate with the Jewel of Mor Ardain— and fails. And so with a ruined arm and an aversion to flames, she moves forward onto a different path.(or, the AU where Mòrag is afraid of Brighid. each chapter illustrated)





	1. "Even if it kills me."

**Author's Note:**

> i don't really have anything solidly outlined for this so we'll see how it goes  
> yolo and whatnot
> 
> edit: thank you to an anonymous commenter for the gorgeous illustration!! <3

All their stares bore into her like daggers.

“Go on, Mòrag.” The Emperor motions to the pedestal, to the Core Crystal cradled upon a silken cushion befitting of a crown. Its glow draws her in, like a moth to a flame, but when Mòrag looks down she realizes she hadn’t stepped forward at all. She won’t admit her nerves are rattled.

The back of her neck prickles with all those stares and then some more, with the murmurs that drift around her like a cloud of flies. She’d like to swat them away, but whispers can’t be dispersed so easily. Short of outright shouting at all the gathered senators and military officials to shut up, Mòrag can only ignore the pressure or willingly bear it all on her shoulders. It annoys her. She should be used to it all, by now.

They’re all saying the same thing. She can no longer distinguish between her own anger and unease, but at least she isn’t trembling.

“Mòrag,” the Emperor says again, this time with a more urgent note. “We haven’t got all day.”

She takes a gulp of air to clear her head. It’s stifling. “Y… yes. My apologies.”

_Surely she can’t._

_Won’t work, I’m telling you._

_She’ll die. Poor thing. At such a young age, too._

If Mor Ardain’s Titan could speak, perhaps it would dissuade her as well.

But she would defy the Architect himself if it would mean proving that she hadn’t lost her worth when her brother was born. There is still value in her life yet, and someday— surely, something great would come of all her years of training.

Mòrag strides forward and grabs the Core Crystal with her right hand, resolution blazing.

A violent shock trembles through her entire being upon contact. The crystal burns so brightly that even the Emperor must shield his eyes, and the whispers of doubt become murmurs of disbelief. Blue flames erupt around Mòrag’s feet, and perhaps there’s a silhouette forming from the shimmering heat there, if it isn’t just a hallucination. Yes, it could be—

But no weapon materializes in her palm and there is no Blade. The fire is struggling to escape from the crystal, spilling between her clenched fingers and Mòrag realizes a second too late that it _hurts._

It’s burning her.

She can’t let go. Not yet. Not even when the Emperor shouts in alarm and their gathered audience hurriedly backs as far away as they can, away from the girl at the center of it all. Those flames are rushing up her arm now, caressing her shoulder and neck. Something wet is trickling from her ears and nose and the back of her throat— blood? Why… is she bleeding? She isn’t supposed to bleed. Drivers don’t bleed when they… ah, no, so that’s it.

Beneath the overwhelming weight of her failure, Mòrag’s legs give way. She falls. Everything goes black amidst scorching pain.

The Core Crystal slips from her grasp and returns to gently pulsating with that pretty blue glow.

 

 

 _You are not to blame_ , was one of the first things the Emperor had said when she had awakened in a private ward, surrounded by healers and their Blades.

But there is nothing to blame but her own ineptitude and shortcomings. No one else is to fault for her inability to resonate with the Jewel of Mor Ardain. Perhaps, if Mòrag were truly petty, she could accuse those who had raised her, all her tutors and instructors and the Emperor himself, for failing to mould her into a person worthy of becoming a Driver, but all she can do is admit that she lacks whatever it is that deems someone worthy of awakening a Blade.

It’s as simple as that. She just doesn’t have it in her, whatever _it_ is really supposed to be.

She can’t properly move her arm. The tips of her fingers, wrapped in bandages, are numb to all sensations. The healers who regularly tend to her try to be optimistic in their words, but Mòrag notices their averted gazes and troubled frowns when they think she isn’t looking. Burns as severe as these are not to be taken lightly.

Those beautiful azure flames had licked across her jaw as well. She’ll bear scars from the incident, a permanent reminder of her devastating failure.

It’s difficult to avoid becoming bogged down in those bouts of self-loathing and pity, but it doesn’t exactly help that the Emperor doesn’t bother trying to conceal his disappointment in her. Even the guards around the palace now avoid eye contact and she had been discharged from her duties in the military. _To heal._ At night, sometimes, she wakes up in a cold sweat with the urge to tear at her hair and scream.

Bullshit.

One day, Niall comes to visit. Everyone else is right back to their busy agendas while Mòrag was swept aside like a stain covered by a rug. His coronation draws ever closer with each passing day as the Emperor’s health continues to decline, after all.

He stands beside her at one of the windows that overlooks Alba Cavanich, hands neatly folded together. They stay in silence for some time. Mòrag flexes her bandaged arm.

“How have you been?” He sounds so tired.

“I’ve been better,” she idly says. Then, with genuine concern: “And yourself?”

“Worried about you, mostly.”

“Please, don’t. I’m alright.” The lie is thick in her throat. But if she says it enough times, perhaps she’d begin to believe it herself. “I don’t need to be a Driver to serve the Empire as I see fit.”

Niall’s gaze drifts to her arm before returning to her face. She looks much older, somehow, but maybe that’s just what a close brush with death does to a person. Unsaid words cross between them across all that tension, but neither can fully understand.

Mòrag looks away.

“Father has formally announced his decision. He says I must be the one to awaken her.”

In that split second in which she quietly thinks to herself that _no, you won’t be able to_ , Mòrag had never hated herself so much. She lifts her uninjured hand and rests it upon Niall’s head, just like how she used to when they were much, much younger. They’re both still children, in a way. Niall literally is a child. But Mòrag isn’t supposed to be. She’s supposed to be better than this.

“You’ll be a fine Driver, Niall.”

He tenses beneath her touch. “If you could not, what chance do I have of succeeding? I’m weak, Mòrag. Don’t protest— we both know it to be true. I can hardly wield a training sword with both hands. The strongest Blade in the Empire has no business being wielded by someone like me.”

Here they are, stewing in their own self-pity together. It’s almost laughable. Mòrag can feel her fury slowly rising until she needs to swallow it all back, and she removes her hand from Niall’s head.

“That attitude is hardly appropriate of someone who is to rule our country.”

“Sorry. And what of you?”

“I am…” Not nearly as important. “Seeking other options. If I work at it enough, perhaps I can join the Carraig Unit.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all. So, please— Mòrag.” He grasps her elbow, tugging to make her look down at him. “Don’t dwell. You’ll only hurt yourself. I’ll… I’ll do as Father says, and try to resonate with the Jewel of Mor Ardain. We both have to move onwards.”

Her other arm, the one wrapped in bandages and burned beyond recognition, twitches slightly.

“Are you afraid?”

“More than I have ever been in my life.”

She doesn’t want to imagine him walking into the same fate she had. She doesn’t want to doubt his capability, either. Both courses of thought leave an equally bitter taste on her tongue, and Mòrag only nods. “I’ll be with you. Go on, then.”

That’s that, then. Niall turns to leave, but pauses. “… I still think it was a _mistake._ You’re meant to be a Driver, Mòrag.”

Her temper is beginning to snap in spite of herself. No, no, she won’t lash out at her brother. “What do you expect me to do? It isn’t as though I would try again. I may not be so lucky next time with my life.”

“There is a second Blade that has also been passed down the royal line, I’m sure you remember.”

“… Him?”

“Father would speak against my idea, but that’s just what I believe.” Niall tries to smile encouragingly. “It’s up to you, really, and if you’ve given up or not.”

She doesn’t respond for several seconds. “Mmh. I’ll mull it over.”

“Take your time.”

They’re nothing but the foolish words of a young boy still entrenched in the flowery optimism of youth and inexperience. But, they ring within her, and her temper stretches ever more taut. To even think of Niall in that way… she had never resented him for taking her place in the line of inheritance, but the idea of him claiming the Blade she had meant to resonate with stings. Mòrag slumps over and presses her forehead to the glass once Niall shuts the door with his exit. She’s sweating— she hadn’t realized it, and her arm is singing with pain again.

It shouldn’t matter. She doesn’t want it to matter. But it does, because it had been a test of her own innate aptitude and she had failed miserably.

But she’s still alive. As long as she’s still alive, there’s always a chance.

“Even if it kills me,” she murmurs, a shadow cast across her face.

 

* * *

 

Only the Emperor and Mòrag are present. The absence of a proper audience suggests his doubt; she suspects that the Emperor would rather not risk the chance of everyone witnessing his true heir fail just the same as his former heir. Mòrag sees red.

No one should be doubting Niall. And yet…

And yet, when he grabs the Core Crystal, he doesn’t burn or bleed or scream as she had. The blue flames are just the same as before and a tinge of fear instinctually stabs at Mòrag’s gut, her burns throbbing, and she’s overcome with the urge to wrench the crystal from Niall’s grasp and pull him away from the fire. She thoughtlessly extends her left hand to him, then freezes. Something— no, someone is there, standing before him. A Blade.

Mòrag glances at the Emperor. He looks just as shocked.

“… Lady Brighid,” Niall gasps. He nearly drops the twin swords that had materialized in his grasp.

Brighid slowly looks between each of them. Her gaze lingers on Mòrag a bit longer— or maybe it was just her imagination, and she speaks to Niall.


	2. "Let my sword be your safeguard."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mòrag tries again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again to the wonderful anon artist!!

Hardhaigh Palace is never really quiet, not with the constant patrol of soldiers throughout the vast halls and the distant sounds of the capital. But at this hour, when even the most vigilant guard can’t help but nod off, the air almost seems still for once and it’s easy for Mòrag to slip out of her room unnoticed.

Having only the healers who tend to her burns for company is maddening. The days since Brighid’s awakening had been… lonely. She’s used to the Emperor being kept away by his duties, but now Niall is completely sunken into his training, still preparing for the inevitable day when he takes the throne from his— their father. As for Brighid herself, she hardly sees her. Which is understandable, but rather disheartening all the same.

That shouldn’t even be bothering her.

A formation of soldiers is coming down the hall. Mòrag quickly turns to the right around a corner— they’ll probably try to take her back to her room _because you need to rest, Lady Mòrag, His Majesty’s orders_ — and almost crashes right into someone.

She’s about to respond with an automatic apology and hurry onwards, but her mind registers searing blue first and her legs freeze up.

Brighid steadies Mòrag, careful not to touch her bandaged shoulder. “My, someone seems to be in a hurry.”

‘I— ah,” she pulls herself away without thinking. Her heart is suddenly racing. Brighid’s hand is unbelievably hot; makes sense, what with her being a fire-type Blade, but an overwhelming sense of dread renders Mòrag speechless for a moment.

She turns slightly, to partially obscure her right side from Brighid. The defensive motion doesn’t go unnoticed, and Brighid’s polite smile slightly fades.

“Is something wrong?”

“N-no. It’s nothing.” The dread is scratching at her innards. It’s… fear? Why is she… Mòrag clears her throat. “What are you doing at this hour, Lady Brighid?”

“I could ask the same of you.” Brighid regards Mòrag silently. It’s unnerving, being unable to tell where exactly she’s looking. “I was feeling restless, so I thought I would reacquaintance myself with the palace’s layout. There, that’s my answer. Now how about yours?”

“About the same as you. I couldn’t sleep.”

“You probably should be. Oh, I was curious— if you don’t mind me asking, what happened?” She inclines her head towards Mòrag’s arm. Mòrag self-consciously rests a hand over it. The bandages, freshly changed just an hour ago, already feel too constricting.

“Just an accident with some Titan weaponry.”

“I see.”

Once again, Brighid silently stares with nothing to indicate where exactly she’s looking or what she’s thinking. It’s downright unsettling, and Mòrag’s heart still hasn’t stopped racing from the apprehension.

“Well then, if you’ll excuse me…” Mòrag tries to walk around Brighid, but she steps in her path.

“Where are you going, Mòrag?”

There’s something almost accusatory in her tone. Lying about her injuries came naturally enough, but she can’t stand feeling guilty about doing this. Mòrag sighs, staring past Brighid.

“… To the royal vaults, where they keep the Core Crystals.”

Brighid almost laughs. Almost. “You’re seeking to become a Driver as well?”

Suddenly she feels so childish, standing here before this Blade she should have known but doesn’t know. Brighid’s practically a complete stranger, Mòrag realizes. She wonders why Niall hadn’t told Brighid about Mòrag’s attempt to resonate her, but she can easily guess why he hadn’t mentioned it.

It was to protect her pride. How thoughtful of him. But now Brighid likely only sees Mòrag as a ward of the Emperor who’s far too careless around heavy machinery and skulks around at night in the halls and is jealous of her younger brother for becoming a Driver before she.

Perhaps it would help if Mòrag just told the truth in its entirety, but…

But…

“That’s right.” Mòrag nods. “I’d like a Blade of my own.” That’s not the whole story, but even she isn’t sure how to put it all her reasoning into words.

“Judging from your suspicious disposition, I’m guessing His Majesty has no idea you’re doing this.”

Again, Mòrag nods. Her eyes flit down to her arm. Visions of blue flames scorching her had constantly plagued her in almost every waking moment ever since that horrible moment. Maybe they haunt the Emperor, as well.

“Will you try to stop me, Lady Brighid?” she weakly asks.

“Mmh… I suppose I should.”

“I can’t let anyone get in my way. Not even my brother’s Blade.”

“You’d stand against _me?_ ”

Her fingertips are igniting. Mòrag’s heart is threatening to jump into her throat— or it might just be vomit. But she stands her ground with the fires dancing in her vision and her bandaged arm throbbing, unwilling to relent. Then, finally, after what feels like an eternity, Brighid relaxes and smiles. She extinguishes the flames.

“Well then, let’s see where that foolish resolve takes you.”

Mòrag is too relieved to try to refute it. Maybe she really is a fool. She quietly nods and resumes her procession to the vaults, this time with Brighid walking beside her. Every so often she steals a glance at her from the corner of her vision. Brighid seems lost in thought, or… well, it still is hard to tell. She’s completely inscrutable.

The Emperor would reprimand Mòrag for selfishly trying to nurse her wounded ego, for selfishly attempting to acquire her own Blade. And perhaps she really is being selfish, but— failure had never been an option. He had taught her that himself, after all.

She could deal with having her inheritance to the throne taken away. The laws and traditions of Mor Ardain are far out of her control and that power never mattered to her in the first place. Mòrag had always known it was a possibility ever since the day the Emperor took her in, and she had quickly accepted it without fuss when the late Empress became pregnant with Niall.

But Brighid’s Core Crystal was directly within her grasp and it was her own shortcomings that ruined her arm.

The fact that she even needs to rationalize this to herself only annoys her. Of course she needs to prove herself capable. What use would she be to the empire otherwise?

“If you die—“

“I won’t die,” Mòrag snaps. She lifts a hand to the guards stationed at the entrance to the vaults and they hesitate, but Brighid’s presence seems to intimidate them; they allow the two to pass without questioning.

“ _If you die_ ,” Brighid repeats. “What would you like me to do with your body? Shall I present it to His Majesty? Or incinerate the evidence and spin a tale of how you had embarked on a journey of self-discovery?”

“You make it sound as though I’m about to commit a heinous crime. There’s no need for the sardonicism, Lady Brighid.” And, she isn’t exactly helping soothe Mòrag’s nerves, but that part doesn’t need to be said.

It isn’t the prospect of dying that’s frightening, though. In spite of her initial failure, Mòrag’s confidence has yet to completely crumble away. It’s… Brighid’s presence itself that rattles her.

Her fire makes a good light source, at least. Their footsteps echo in tandem as Mòrag leads the way further down.

“To think that only three days after my awakening, I could be the sole witness to the death of the Emperor’s daughter. How exciting.”

Mòrag wants to cover her face with her hands. Why is Brighid like this?

“Ah— pardon me. Am I making you nervous, Mòrag?”

“Not at all.” But, the thought does make her pause. Brighid stops as well, looking to her questioningly. “Lady Brighid… if you really believe that I could die, why won’t you stop me?”

“I never said that, now did I? There’s something within you. Something that even your brother lacks.” She folds her arms, a troubled furrow creasing her brow so briefly that Mòrag wonders if it had just been a trick of the light. “He… can’t wield my swords. They only burn his hands.”

“He— what?!” Mòrag’s fear is momentarily forgotten. She practically snarls at Brighid. “You _burned_ Niall?”

Unfazed, Brighid gently pushes Mòrag back to restore the space between them. “Not intentionally. Of course I wouldn’t harm my own Driver. Do you take me to be a brute? The burns are nothing serious, besides. Apparently this isn’t the first instance in which my Driver had been unable to immediately wield my swords— I suppose that could be part of the reason why I worked alone so often, in my previous lives.”

Now she recalls the things she had read from records of Brighid in the history texts she studied. But the texts were all clinical and unbiased, as textbooks tend to be; she can only imagine the raw feelings kept in Brighid’s journal. Mòrag takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling quite ashamed for her outburst. “My apologies… I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions so quickly.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. But let’s move past that, shall we?”

Brighid motions to what waits at the end of the room: a small chest upon a table, with a faint blue glow trying to reach through the keyhole. Mòrag produces a key from her pocket and opens it. There isn’t anything else within the chest.

“He was like a brother to me, in some lives,” Brighid softly says. “I look forward to meeting him again.”

The Core Crystal looks identical to how Brighid’s had been on that day Mòrag brushed shoulders with death. Her arm, the one that had been burned, is being lanced with a fresh wave of pain from the memory. The pain only gets worse as she shakily lifts it and tries to close her fingers around the crystal. They— keep shaking. She can’t get a proper grip on it.

“Mòrag?”

Brighid is staring. Somehow, that’s more nerve-wracking than the very real possibility that she could lose her life over this.

Mòrag closes her left hand around her right, to secure the Core Crystal and lift it out of the chest. The light surges and—

Everything is blue, just like it was when she held Brighid’s crystal. But the blue is softer, gentler, moving in undulating lights like the ebbing and flowing of waves, the distinct feeling of being submerged in cold water jolting Mòrag to her very center. The water is around her, _inside her_ , filling her lungs and throat and eyes. She breathes steadily, her pulse calming at last.

In that moment, there is nothing, only the sensation of drowning within herself.

She had never felt more alive.

Sharp pain in her arm shocks her back to reality. In her hands, there is a katana. Before her, a Blade. He looks down at Mòrag, examining the features of her face. His gaze lingers upon the raw burn scars along her jaw, but only for a moment.

“… My name is Aegaeon,” he says, clear as still water. Mòrag bows her head and allows him to rest his own hands over hers, upon the hilt of the sword. Behind her, Brighid smiles.

“Let my sword be your safeguard.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t stay around in the vaults much longer. The guards’ faces are hidden beneath their helmets and masks, but their entire bodies visibly startle when Mòrag emerges with one more Blade than she had entered with.

“L-Lady Mòrag, is that—“

“Is there a problem, soldier?”

Mòrag never gets a chance to explain herself. The sound of pattering footsteps hurry in their direction, and Aegaeon instinctively draws his sword, but there are no assailants. Only a small child. Niall?

“Mòrag! There you are!” He cries, ignoring the guards and even Aegaeon, only focused on his sister. He crashes into her and clings to her shirt, breath shuddering with restrained sobs.

Alarmed, Mòrag holds him close and sharply looks around them. “Niall? What’s wrong?!”

“It’s, it’s His Majesty— Father,” Niall chokes, tears streaming down his cheeks. “He passed away in his sleep.”

That swelling wave of assuredness that Mòrag had been riding upon abruptly comes crashing down. All she can do is stand there in complete shock as Niall cries against her.

Brighid and Aegaeon glance at each other in a silent exchange.


	3. "We fight to protect."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mòrag and Aegaeon have a heart-to-heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm seriously the luckiest fic writer ever to be in cahoots with this artist ahkdhfaha

“You shouldn’t be exerting yourself,” is the first thing Brighid says when she finds them at the training grounds. Aegaeon doesn’t seem willing to relent, although his shoulders relax and the connection of ether between him and Mòrag fades.

Sweat soaks through Mòrag’s clothes and bandages. Her eyes flit to Brighid, then back forward, hesitation pulling her movements to an abrupt halt. Breathing hard, she instead whirls around to strike at Aegaeon rather than the training dummy she’d been targeting— he swiftly draws his katana and parries the dull edge of the training sword away. Mòrag stumbles back from the impact, but Aegaeon’s feet hardly even budge.

“You have excellent reflexes, Aegaeon.”

“Thank you, My Lady.”

“Now then,” Mòrag finally acknowledges Brighid with a curt nod, and sets the training sword aside. “Did you need something from me?”

“His Majesty asked me to check in on you.”

Rather brusquely, she responds: “I’m doing just fine.”

An uneasy feeling tugs at her gut. But the unease had hardly settled in the past few days, amidst the blurs of the funeral procession and the late Emperor’s advisors flocking around Niall and the restlessness of the Ardainian citizens.

Aegaeon seems to sense her apprehension and stands a bit closer to her, offering her his sword; she accepts, savoring the sheer scrape of ether as she slowly draws the blade, never taking her eyes away from Brighid as she does so.

Then, as if she has to prove that she’s _just fine_ , Mòrag swings the sword at Aegaeon. He’s ready, he’s always ready— the sheath is up to guard so quickly that Mòrag nearly loses her footing from the abrupt impact.

Brighid watches on, unreadable as always. Her hands come to rest upon the hilts of her own weapons, though her stance is relaxed and unguarded.

Rather awkwardly, Aegaeon pipes up. “Would you like to join us for some sparring, Brighid?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. There are many other things I must attend to before the day ends.” Brighid still hasn’t looked away from Mòrag. Or wherever she’s looking. Damn her, can she not open her eyes if only for a second?

“Ah. Some other time, then.”

“I’m sure the Jewel of Mor Ardain has little time to waste swinging swords with us,” Mòrag says to Aegaeon, then, to Brighid: “Please, tell His Majesty I’m _fine._ My injuries are no longer a hindrance.”

Half a lie. The healers have done a job well done as far as the pain goes, but it’s still difficult for her to grip so much as a pen without her hand succumbing to violent trembles.

The legends of the might of Brighid’s flames were far from exaggeration. And that was just from her Core Crystal— she could easily incinerate her down to the marrow of her bones if she pleased to do so now, Mòrag suspects.

She could… render her to ashes, as easily as how a child steps on an insect. A cold shudder runs up Mòrag’s spine, and she tightens the grip on Aegaeon’s sword as Brighid scrutinizes her. What is she thinking? Of course Brighid wouldn’t. She _could_ , but she wouldn’t.

Brighid seems skeptical of Mòrag’s response, but she finally nods.

“Mmh… if that’s all you have to report, I’ll be on my way.”

She’s turning to leave. Her back is exposed. Mòrag continues to stare until she’s out of sight and Aegaeon gently nudges her to remind her that he’s still there. Their ether connection had dimmed during the conversation.

“She’s right. You shouldn’t overexert yourself,” Aegaeon says.

“Did you not hear me? I’m just _fine—_ ”

The last word is emphasized with a violent slash at the training dummy; the katana cleanly cleaves it into two. Water splashes from the arc of the motion, dousing Mòrag.

She wrinkles her nose.

In between the funeral procession and sorting out all the matters that came with the late Emperor’s abrupt death, there had been little time to properly acquaintance herself with Aegaeon. All of them were swept up in the flurry of official business like dust in the wind. Niall found himself at the center of a tight crowd of advisors and senators and other politicians with only Brighid there to keep them from swallowing him whole, while Mòrag couldn’t find her way through the wall of people.

Aegaeon knew nothing, except to protect and support the young woman who had become his Driver.

The coronation was a grand affair, of course, if not rather somber. It was as much of the beginning of a new reign as it was the declaration of the death of the old one. Niall’s eyes were stoic as he took the crown, all tears dried and grief neatly tucked away to remain unseen.

Mòrag, too, felt the weight of their blood in her veins, and kept her back straight and visage alert and focused as always.

And now, training is the only time she can find clarity and respite. Simply moving and sparring and sweating is enough to momentarily clear the fogs. Aegaeon, unable to fully reconcile with the abrupt death of an Emperor he hadn’t even known, is unable to even offer words of advice or comfort to her. All he can do is offer his sword.

She’s grateful for him, truly.

“You’re… angry.” Aegaeon cautiously treads. “I can sense it, boiling just beneath your skin.”

Mòrag swings the katana again. This time, she’s able to redirect the water away from her, although it still splashes haphazardly in no particular direction.

Of course she’s angry. And sad. And frustrated. And— a whole lot of other things that she feels but can’t quite put into words.

Would the late Emperor have been pleased to see she was able to awaken a Blade after all? Would he express his approval and tell her she would become an excellent Driver? Or would he shake his head and call her an egotistical fool?

The blade slices through the air. A thin arc of water is left suspended, so briefly that it’s already dripped down to the floor when Mòrag blinks.

“I should be at His Majesty’s side, protecting him.”

“That duty goes to Brighid.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

Feet apart. Breath steady. Focus. Right arm held behind her back— it’s useless, and will be useless for a long time to come.

She lunges at Aegaeon. He blocks with the katana’s sheath just as he had before, his brow furrowed with transparent concern, hardly even thinking about his movements as he effortlessly fends off each of Mòrag’s attacks.

“Focus, Aegaeon.”

“Of course— sorry.”

“Is something troubling you?”

“Brighid had mentioned that we are both passed down the Ardainian royal family, but…”

“But?”

“Do I have a title, as the Jewel of Mor Ardain does?”

“… No.” Mòrag strikes too softly— the sword bounces off the sheath and the reverberation causes her to waver in her balance. Aegaeon shoves forward with it, pushing Mòrag back a couple steps, but there is no real aggression in the action.

“I don’t understand.”

“Brighid has been a part of the Ardainian Empire since its founding. You, on the other hand, were acquired by one of my ancestors only about two hundred years back.” Mòrag frowns, and lowers the sword. “Does such a thing really matter to you, Aegaeon?”

He shakes his head. “I was only wondering.”

“If you’d like, I can gather texts that tell of your history with the empire.”

“Perhaps those would answer some of these questions I have had about myself.” This time, Aegaeon takes the offensive and swings the sheath at Mòrag, although clearly with careful restraint.

“Without a— _ugh,_ ” Mòrag grunts as the sheath clips her shoulder despite Aegaeon’s caution. He immediately draws back and reaches to her, but Mòrag holds her palm up. “Without a journal of your own, I can see why you would have so many questions.”

“Why does Brighid have a journal, but I do not? Why did my past selves never feel the need to record my lives?” Aegaeon’s voice gradually rises. Mòrag can sense his frustration— an extent of her own, likely, bubbling over into Aegaeon’s own ether. He grits his teeth and runs a hand over his face. “I would have the privilege of having my journal protected by the royal family, and yet…”

“… Do you feel the need to begin keep a journal now, Aegaeon?” Mòrag carefully asks.

A long, long pause. He thinks in silence for so long that Mòrag begins to uncomfortably shift her weight from one foot to the other, unsure if she should ask again or not. Then, finally, he shakes his head.

“No.”

“And why is that?”

“Because… I know I must keep looking forward.”

“To avoid dwelling on the past?”

“If I were to continuously glance over my shoulder at what had once been, I cannot pour my entire being into what matters _now._ ” Aegaeon gazes at Mòrag, some sort of sadness lingering in his blank eyes. “And now, what matters is protecting and serving you, My Lady.”

Something pangs in Mòrag’s chest with a painful throb. Why does he look so sad?

“... Thank you, Aegaeon.”

“You and I are the same. Just now, I realized that.”

“People do say that a Blade will sometimes take traits from his or her Driver…”

Their affinity link is just a bit brighter now. It washes over Mòrag like the cool waters from Lake Yewtle, and she suddenly remembers. She remembers of the day when she had brought Niall to the lake to teach him how to swim, and how he had fearfully clung to her back as she tread through shallow waters. Niall had insisted that he would drown without her to keep him afloat. In the end, she had had to hold him as he clumsily practiced paddling his arms and legs through the water.

She isn’t sure why that memory in particular had surfaced. Mòrag blinks hard, to root herself back to the present.

“We fight to protect. That’s what we are meant to do,” Aegaeon says with a nod.

All their frustration and sadness and grief is intermingling into a whirlpool that threatens to pull them both in. A good Driver isn’t meant to make their Blade share their suffering, Mòrag thinks.

She looks down at her ruined arm, blues and reds flashing in her vision, memory still sharp with the sensation of burning and the sharp smells of blood and her own flesh being scorched. It’s… a temporary hindrance. Nothing more. She hopes, at least.

Her left hand tightens its grip on the sword. It still feels somewhat awkward and unfamiliar.

“Come, Aegaeon,” she says, readying herself into a stance once again. “We still have much to learn about each other."

 

* * *

 

Eavesdropping comes all too naturally to Brighid. First, she had listened in on Niall’s meeting with all those advisors clamoring to give him their advice after he took the throne, then again when a group of noblemen were whispering rumors about what Mòrag had done (something about how _she was badly burned_ , Brighid will have to look more into that later), then just now with those two in the training grounds.

She’s not sure why she had stuck around. Simple curiosity, maybe.

She touches her chin, contemplating. When the late Emperor presented her journal to her, Brighid had felt an unplaceable warmth of relief and joy, as if she’d been given a missing piece of her Core Crystal. Of course, with everything going on, she hadn’t had the time to read through every single life recorded in there, but… it’s something, to put her mind at ease.

How could Aegaeon ultimately be unconcerned with his own past selves?

And Mòrag… seems to be too loyal for her own good. Perhaps. There’s something about her…

They’re sparring again. Brighid can hear Mòrag’s shouts and the clanging of swords intermingling with splashes of water. She’s somewhat tempted to stay and watch them, but duty does call.

Brighid lingers a little longer before she goes to report back to the Emperor. He’ll only be more worried to hear that Mòrag is refusing to rest.


	4. "They shall pass, as all things do."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The after-effects continue to linger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like my morag extra crispy

Brighid is approaching.

Walls of flames erupt from the ground and race towards Mòrag, cutting off any path of escape, slowly closing in until she can feel the heat of the fires inside and out. The heat is so intense she may choke— she is choking. She tries to speak, to say anything— perhaps to plead with Brighid— but all she can do is weakly cough as the air begins to suffocate her, thick in her throat.

She reaches for Aegaeon’s sword only to find it’s not at her hip. Brighid’s pace quickens the more her panic begins to build up, until the fires are wrapping around her and a burning hand reaches for her throat—

Then she’s sitting upright in her bed, gasping and scratching at her neck with numb fingers as her vision swims with the vestiges of scorching azure.

“My Lady?”

Mòrag nearly shouts in alarm but she realizes it’s just Aegaeon, staring down at her in concern. Without the faint glow of his ether, she could have mistaken his silhouette for that of an intruder in the dark. He’s hesitantly reaching towards her, concerned.

It takes a moment for Mòrag to gather her bearings. The ceruleans of his aura are a soothing comfort.

“Aegaeon. What are you doing in my room?”

“I sensed you were in distress, so I thought it necessary to come to you.”

“… The door was locked.”

“I’ll be sure to fix it first thing in the morning.”

Mòrag groans and runs her good hand over her face. Her skin is tacky with cold sweat. At least Aegaeon’s intentions were in good will, as questionable as his methods were. He frowns and kneels beside the bed, resting his arms on the crumpled covers.

“Another nightmare, My Lady?”

“It’s nothing to worry about. They shall pass, as all things do.”

“You’ll be returning to your military duties soon… perhaps the stress is getting to you. Have you tried meditation?”

“Yes. I have,” Mòrag snaps, then tries to soften her expression. There’s no reason for her to be so curt with Aegaeon. He’s only trying to help.

But he can’t really help when he doesn’t even know what his own Driver is thinking. Their affinity link may be strong when they spar, but Mòrag has yet to even admit what exactly the nightmares that have been plaguing her as of recent times are about. How could she, when she can hardly admit it to herself?

She’s not afraid. She… it’s just preposterous. There’s no reason to be afraid.

So then, why…

“Your bandages have come loose,” Aegaeon says, nodding to her arm. He stands. “I’ll fetch a healer to replace them for you—“

“Don’t,” Mòrag says. Her eyes are adjusting to the dark and to Aegaeon’s dim luminescence. The refraction of the flowing ether in his tubes (veins? Mòrag hasn’t quite decided on a proper word for them yet, and she thought not to ask Aegaeon) cast a shimmering pattern across the sheets and her skin. Without thinking twice about it, she begins to unwind the bandages from her arm, impatiently tugging them loose to fall away in ribbons beside her.

She stops at her shoulder to stare down at the warped scars that wrap around the limb. They only look even more distorted beneath Aegaeon’s light.

Her throat is tight. It’s difficult to breathe, just as it had been in her dream.

“Does it… still hurt?” Aegaeon quietly asks.

Mòrag’s fingers twitch. She still can’t move the joints as she’d once been able to. A horrible, horrible feeling of helplessness wells up in her chest and all she can do is stare down and fight back against the bile. But she manages to shake her head. It doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s just… ugly.

Her other fingers, the ones that haven’t been ruined by Brighid’s flames, blindly run across the disfigured skin over her neck and jaw.

It’s real. It’s all real.

She takes a deep breath and pulls her knees up to her chest, her other arm limp at her side, palm facing up on the sheets. Aegaeon bites his lip and lightly rests his hand over hers, but she hardly even feels his touch.

“I suppose I’ll have to remove any articles of clothing without long sleeves from my wardrobe,” she flatly says, staring straight ahead.

“I’ll find some suitable gloves for you to wear, as well.”

“… Thank you, Aegaeon. I’m grateful.”

Her fingers twitch again. Aegaeon gently grasps her hand and nods.

 

* * *

 

Business as usual means many things around the Palace and its politicians. The Emperor governs. The Senators bicker. The guards march and tend to their weapons.

Mòrag fights and trains and tries not to think about the pain that lingers in her arm. In her chest. At the back of her tongue. In the link she shares with Aegaeon. Just business as usual.

She hates feeling useless more than anything else. Being useless is far from what she was meant to do. The late Emperor didn’t raise her to sit around and lament over her failures, and so she crushes down her shame with fury and finds her brother in the throne room when they’re finally able to meet without the hovering company of guards and advisors.

Aegaeon dutifully follows two paces behind, unable to stop his own Driver.

“Your Majesty,” Mòrag kneels. She doesn’t see the discomfort on Niall’s round face. Or, she’s simply choosing to ignore it for now.

“Stand, Mòrag.”

So she does.

“... How are you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Their exchange is already beginning to peter off. Niall can tell that everything’s changed now. Mòrag treats him as she had treated their father, with a respectful distance and imperial courtesy. He’s not her little brother anymore. He’s the Emperor.

He really isn’t sure how to feel about this. Maybe, if Mòrag just addressed him by name, this wouldn’t be so… strange.

Brighid lightly clears her throat.

“Ah— yes. What brings you here, Mòrag?”

“Allow me to join the Imperial Guard,” Mòrag quickly says. Then, she catches herself, and adds: “Please, Your Majesty.”

Right. They once had a conversation about this. How long ago was it? Weeks? Months? No, it could have only been weeks. Mòrag’s scars, the ones peeking out from beneath her collar and reaching up her neck, are still raw pink.

Niall shakes his head, and Mòrag takes a deep breath.

“That’s not where you’re meant to be, Mòrag.”

“I am meant to support you as one of the Empire’s soldiers.”

Because—

“You’re my sister.”

Her jaw is clenched. “Your Majesty. If you believe me to be any less capable because of—” She vaguely gestures at her arm. “I can still fight. The wounds means nothing. Your concerns are greatly appreciated, but I cannot sit idle to rest any longer.”

“It’s… not that.” Niall’s gaze turns downward. “I only thought… well, perhaps it would be foolish of me, but.”

“If I may speak,” Brighid says. “Let the girl do as she likes. Otherwise you’ll never hear the end of her requests to join the fray.”

The muscles in Mòrag’s jaw only pull more taut; the scars along her neck pulsate over the twitching muscles. What right does Brighid have to interject? … She’s the Blade of the Emperor and far more powerful than Mòrag could ever hope to be in her sorry condition.

Niall… isn’t sure. They can’t even talk like they used to anymore. He can feel the wall between them growing taller and taller for every second he can’t say what he means to say, although he supposes Mòrag is the same.

For all their lessons on diplomatics and negotiations, conversation doesn’t seem to be either of their strong suit.

“Is that what you really want, Mòrag?”

Without hesitation, she nods. “Yes. I can think of no greater privilege than serving as one of your shields.”

Her words sting like nettles. Why can’t they just talk? Niall looks to Brighid, but she’s glaring past Mòrag and at Aegaeon. Or… well, she could be looking anywhere, really. Aegaeon looks as though he wants to touch Mòrag’s back, but he keeps his hands folded behind himself.

Mòrag should have been the one to wear this crown.

But even if she can’t be Empress, she can at least hold some power and authority within the hierarchy. Niall can already hear the disapproving tones of his advisors and the outrage of the Senate.

The room is silent, still, and lacking of pomp and ceremony, but it will have to do. Somehow, this is far more nerve-wracking than his coronation had been.

“Mòrag Ladair. I hereby instate you to be my Special Inquisitor, to serve as my personal retainer, to battle in my stead, and to dedicate your being to the good of this country.”

All three pairs of eyes (one closed) sharply turn to Niall. His heart won’t stop pounding. It’s taking all he can muster to keep his voice steady.

Brighid starts. “Your Majesty, what—”

Mòrag is kneeling again, staring down at the floor.

“You… honor me greatly, Your Majesty.”

“I’m glad, Mòrag. Now please stop kneeling.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure that was a wise decision?” Brighid asks once Mòrag and Aegaeon leave. Niall looks so tiny on that grand throne. He can’t even rest his arms on the sides, so he keeps his hands folded together on his lap.

“What do you think, Brighid?”

Brighid puts a hand to her chin, staring across the throne room to the elevator at the other end. “The night your father passed away, she awakened Aegaeon without telling anyone.”

“And she succeeded.”

“All I’m saying is that you should be cautious. Especially since you just granted her one of the Empire’s highest seats of power.”

Niall’s thin smile turns downward, and he looks just like a child who’d been reprimanded for playing in the mud. “She’s my sister. I trust her more than anyone else.”

“I understand, but—”

“Everything she does is for the good of our country. If… if it were up to me, Mòrag would be the one wearing this crown at this very moment.”

“Was risking her life to resonate with a Blade in secrecy part of her agenda to help Mor Ardain?”

He’s silent for a long pause, unable to look Brighid in the eye. “That’s not why she did it.”

“You’re the one who told her to try, aren’t you?”

Ah, there it is. He should’ve known Brighid would be able to put all the pieces into place. She’s so perceptive it’s nearly frightening, and Niall can only wonder if other rulers had felt this way around her or if he’s just exceptionally weak.

But she doesn’t know where Mòrag’s burn scars had come from. It’s only a matter of time before she finds the truth either by her own means or by admission from Mòrag or Niall, though.

“She’ll prove herself to be worthy of the title. People will come to respect and obey her. I know they will.”

Brighid looks down at Niall, her disapproval practically burning. “I hope that you’ll prove yourself to be a worthy Emperor, first.”

Then she’s turning on her heels and marching out of the throne room without even granting Niall the opportunity to rebuke her stings.

 

 

She finds Mòrag and Aegaeon at the training grounds, completely unsurprisingly. Aegaeon is slashing away at training dummies, but Mòrag is sitting aside for once, simply watching his movements.

Brighid wastes no time with neither formalities nor greetings. She strides up to Mòrag and stands before her, blocking the sun and casting her in her shadow. Behind her, Aegaeon pauses.

“Lady Brighid? Did you need—”

“Come, Mòrag. Let’s spar,” Brighid practically snarls, her swords already in hand. She sees the way Mòrag freezes, then tenses, then averts her gaze to the ground beneath her feet.

Coward.

“Do you have any reason to refuse me?” Brighid takes a step closer. Mòrag’s head only bows lower. “All I ask of you is one round.”

Aegaeon raises a hand. “If… you are seeking a sparring partner, Brighid, I would be more than happy to—”

“Not you, Aegaeon. I want to fight Mòrag.”

“Oh, okay…”

Mòrag is still staring at the ground. Brighid can hear her breathing, hastened and light, telltale of some sort of anxiety. Perhaps she would feel more sympathetic in different circumstances, but right now, Brighid only harbors disdain.

She almost wants to slap Mòrag across the face for this pitiful display.

“You’re the Special Inquisitor! Show some mettle!”

That seems to be barely enough. Mòrag takes one deep, shuddering inhale and unsteadily rises to her feet, sweat already beading at her temples. At last, she nods.

“Of course, Lady Brighid.”

“That’s a start. Why don’t you try making eye contact, next?”

Mòrag doesn’t respond. Fear and anger are melding together and rolling off her shoulders as she walks past Brighid and wordlessly takes Aegaeon’s sword. They stand opposite of each other then, Aegaeon nervously channeling ether to Mòrag and Brighid raising her own swords.

She’s the first to strike. Mòrag actually parries Brighid’s assault, fast and steady in spite of her earlier trepidations. Their blades clang together but Mòrag is making little effort to push back, simply defending herself against Brighid.

“Fight back!” Brighid swings both swords down, and they connect with Aegaeon’s blade. Mòrag keeps her eyes trained on the weapons, never once glancing at Brighid’s face.

“Is this really all you have?! Special Inquisitor?! Are you truly worthy of serving the Emperor as his shield?!”

Mòrag cries out and finally attempts an aggressive swing, but it’s too tainted with desperation; Brighid smoothly ducks beneath the blade and thrusts her own upwards, stopping it just short of Mòrag’s throat.

It hadn’t even been a full minute. Mòrag’s hands tremble.

She— Brighid, she’s standing too close—

That sword, the one at her throat, suddenly ignites with blue flames. Mòrag lets out a startled cry and stumbles backwards right into Aegaeon, his katana clattering to the floor. She’s breathing hard as if they’d been fighting for an hour rather than several blinks, legs shaking and eyes wide. Aegaeon awkwardly holds onto her, keeping her supported.

Brighid shakes her head in disappointment.

“I was hoping for more from you, especially since His Majesty apparently thought you were worthy enough to be spontaneously named Special Inquisitor. This was… rather disappointing.”

Mòrag hangs her head. Even after all that, she still refuses eye contact.

It suddenly all clicks for Brighid. She lowers her swords, and something falls to the pit of her guts.

“... Why are you afraid of me, Mòrag?”

But of course, Mòrag says nothing. Aegaeon helplessly looks to Brighid, lips pressed tightly together. It seems he either has no answers or is unwilling to say.

Nothing else can be said here. Not right now, in the midst of this strangling tension. Brighid shakes her head and leaves the training grounds, her swords still ablaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 5 will be up around december! wow!!


	5. "Bravery, recklessness, what's the difference?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mòrag and Aegaeon go outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates are slow as fuck (ch4 was in july?? wow) but we do intend to see this fic all the way through to the end— we being myself and the artist i'm collaborating with c: 
> 
> but of course, art takes time, and we both have our own schedules, so it's not going to be a very frequent thing.

Her very first assignment is a simple one, meant to test the waters— so to speak.

Aegaeon wrinkles his nose in the dust. Mor Ardain’s very dry climate doesn’t particularly agree with him, which Mòrag understands, but it also seems to make him somewhat lethargic when the sun reaches its highest peak overhead.

Right now, for instance, he drags his feet as he follows Mòrag out of the city. The winds blow harder here, uninhibited by the cover of buildings. His breathing is shallow but clearly audible even over the light whistling of the dry breeze. _Too_ audible, even, practically upon the back of her neck.

… It is upon the back of her neck.

“Aegaeon. You’re walking too close again,” Mòrag says without turning or slowing her pace.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Dirt grits beneath his steps as he adjusts himself accordingly.

To call him overprotective wouldn’t be entirely accurate, Mòrag would consider. Ever since she had stumbled at the sight of Brighid’s flames he’d been more attentive, yes, but he had never once asked her about it nor brought up that incident again. His concern had always been appreciated, but now he’s only delicately treating her as if she could snap at any moment again.

Of course she wouldn’t. What a ridiculous notion. As the Special Inquisitor, she has a standard to uphold, and to be any less would be to bring shame upon the Emperor and the country, and…

She needed this assignment. Confronting a group of transients that had settled within the tunnels of the ether mine is no glamorous job, but it’s still something to do and it’s an excuse to get away from the clutter of the city.

Aegaeon is walking too close to her again, but Mòrag quietly accepts this intrusion of personal space with a quiet sigh. He’s just trying to do his job, just as she’s trying to do her own job.

She nods to the guard by the elevator and steps inside with Aegaeon. The ride down into the heat extraction duct is uncomfortably warm, and the further down they go the worse the heat gets. Truth be told, she’s absolutely sweltering in the uniform, but she supposes it’ll be something she’ll just have to get used to.

Their footsteps echo along the metal pathway when they exit the lift. Aegaeon is still dragging his feet.

“It’s very, very hot…” he sighs, still close to breathing down Mòrag’s neck.

“Your water doesn’t keep you cool?”

“Um.”

She peers over the edge of the walkway, down to the glowing ether far below. She can feel the heat rising against her face. That sheer height is dizzying to focus on. Now and then, according to the guards usually stationed around the lift, some unfortunate lizard will fall in, but their small bodies are quickly disintegrated in the ether. Mòrag shudders to think of what would happen if _she_ fell…

Aegaeon lightly tugs at her arm.

“Take caution, My Lady. You’ll die if you fall in.”

That’s… blunt. “I’m well aware. Thank you for the reminder, Aegaeon.”

So they continue along the pathway, and Mòrag is careful to walk away from that treacherous edge this time.

The rest of their procession into the exhaust pipes is silent, save for the steady sound of Aegaeon breathing far too close to her ear as usual.

She should be focusing. Whether or not this is just a menial cleanup task, the Special Inquisitor must always give her one hundred percent, as befitting the glory of the Empire. But all Mòrag can think about is Aegaeon’s overbearing vigilance and the nightmares that still occasionally plague her.

At least Aegaeon hasn’t broken the lock to her door again.

“Why would anyone choose to settle here?” Aegaeon wonders out loud. It’s damp and dark and musty in the thermal exhaust ducts, residues of steam making the interior of the pipes rather slimy to the touch. Vangs squeak above them. Other things scurry along in the shadows, their footsteps echoing.

“A long time ago, there were more settlements across the Titan’s body. However, as Mor Ardain’s condition worsened… you’re aware of the ruins near the Old Industrial District, haven’t you? It’s completely occupied by an Igna colony now.”

“I haven’t had the chance to explore much, yet.”

“Ah,” is all Mòrag can say to that, rather awkwardly. Aegaeon’s hardly left her side at all ever since they resonated. He would never have had the time to go tour the Titan at his leisure. She coughs to recompose herself. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to have the means to immigrate to Gormott. Some of those Ardainians choose to live as transients rather than face the crowding in the cities.”

“Don’t we have the power to help them? To give them shelter, and work, and food?”

“I only wish it were as simple as that, Aegaeon.”

Aegaeon presses his lips together, brow wrinkled in troubled thought. He always looks so _worried_ , even when he’s at rest and there’s nothing to do. Mòrag can’t help but feel partially responsible for that. Her own suppressed anxieties must be affecting their link, as well as his own temperament, even if she can fool herself into believing there’s nothing wrong with herself.

She was told to simply flush anyone out of the tunnels for their own sake (it’s hot and musty and _dangerous_ ), but she at least plans tell them there are opportunities for work in Alba Cavanich. Whether or not those people decide to take that to heart is up to them.

Mòrag stops so abruptly that Aegaeon bumps into her. They’ve come to a fork along the passage where the pipe takes a turn left. There’s a valve to open the rusted gate; she nods to Aegaeon and he twists at it with some grunts of effort to open it with an ear-splitting screech of metal that echoes through the entire thermal exhaust pipes.

The scuttering of Lizards and Lysaats follow shortly, as well as the echoing shrieks of Vangs.

“… That wasn’t very subtle,” Aegaeon sighs, letting his arms drop.

“If there was anyone in here, they would know of our presence by now,” Mòrag agrees rather regretfully. “Let’s keep going.”

The rest of the tunnel slightly curves until they can see the end of it, where the waning sun offers only a dim light to illuminate the outside. They carefully move past a sleeping Aspar and around another Lysaat, and emerge outside upon a rather small stretch of cliff that extends to the right.

 

From here, they can see the Cargo Transportation Zone in the distance and the underside of Midorl Bridge. The wind is relatively quiet in the encroaching evening. Mòrag slowly walks over to the edge and stares up at the bridge—

_-bang—_

Aegaeon wraps an arm around her and extends his other hand, to throw up a barrier—

_Stupid, careless_ — they’re _here_ , they were right there, hiding behind those piles of old crates, a rifle aimed at them and its muzzle smoldering. Mòrag’s jaw is so tightly clenched her teeth are ringing. She wrenches herself away from Aegaeon to reach for her sword, and another bullet ricochets off the barrier.

“ _Drop your weapons!_ ” Mòrag yells, eyes flitting to Aegaeon. He still hasn’t lowered the barrier, and that rifle is still aimed straight at them.

They’re… wearing _soldiers’_ uniforms. Her grip slackens only so slightly in disbelief, but then her knuckles are white again. The uniforms are ragged and stained, a telltale sign they’ve been out here for a while, but…

These aren’t homeless transients bumming around in the exhaust pipes. So much for a simple assignment, then. Aegaeon is completely tensed up, keeping himself between Mòrag and the three men now emerging from their hiding spot. Two of them carry rifles, and the third…

A Blade stands behind the third, carrying an axe far too large for its small frame.

“Who the hell’re you?” One of them barks out, finger on the trigger. “Oh— it’s just a girl.”

“Don’t be stupid,” another one says. “Look. She’s got a Blade. She’s a _Driver._ ”

Mòrag glowers, itching to strike, but Aegaeon isn’t budging. He means to keep her back. He can feel her anger beginning to get the better of her senses. She needs to— no, she doesn’t. But they’re clearly a _threat_ that needs to be neutralized. But she mustn’t act rashly.

So she steadies herself, trying to recall upon all those training scenarios she’d been through.

“I said, drop your weapons!” This time, her voice rings far more clearly, but the three men simply laugh.

“What’re you gonna do? You’re outnumbered,” the one with the axe-wielding Blade shrugs. He squints at her. “That uniform… you’re with the Imperial Army? Really? They’ve resorted to recruiting _little girls_ into their ranks… pathetic.”

“Haha, who gave this kid a Blade?”

“Let’s just kill her and take the Core Crystal for ourselves.”

“No, no, not right now, I wanna take my time with _her_.”

They’re… not taking her seriously at all.

Her throat bubbles with unsaid curses and boiling hate, all those frustrations that had accumulated ever since the night her father died finally on the verge of bursting. She wasn’t strong enough to resonate with Brighid. But she was strong enough to bond with Aegaeon.

She’s still not strong enough. But she needs to be.

Her scarred arm hangs uselessly by her side.

“Lady Mòrag,” Aegaeon mutters only loud enough for her to hear, still facing forward with that barrier protecting them. “Go get reinforcements. I’ll hold them off.”

“And leave you here? I will absolutely _not_.”

“We can’t fight them like this…”

“Yes, we can.” Mòrag snarls, pulling the katana from its sheath in one fluid motion. “Aegaeon! Go for the riflemen!”

He looks so pained by her decision, but he moves in tandem with Mòrag as she charges at the Driver in the center— “As you wish.”

The air is deafened with the explosion of gunshots, but her breathing is steady and her steps certain as she weaves low and strikes high. Her sword collides heavily against the broad side of the other Blade’s axe, and all she can see is the mocking, jagged grin of its Driver, his breath foul even at this distance.

One of his companions plummets over the side of the cliff with a horrible shriek. Aegaeon had _thrown_ him, and now he grapples with the second rifleman for his gun.

“You’re leaving yourself open!” The Driver cackles, seizing the axe from his Blade and swiping it in a wide arc, forcing Mòrag to jump back. “What’s wrong with your other arm, eh? Can’t use it?”

Another gunshot pierces the air. Aegaeon wrenches the rifle away and bludgeons the man with it, knocking him down.

In that split second she’d looked away, Mòrag feels a horrible sensation of the ground spinning and the world spinning along with it, then realizes she’d been struck across the head.

“Like I said, wide open!”

“My Lady!” Aegaeon rushes to her, but pauses. He’s hesitating. Hesitating? Why…?

Mòrag tries to think, but her head is sharply ringing with all that frustration and anger and hatred and pain, and realizes the heavy axe blade is poised right above her neck, ready to decapitate her with a single drop.

Oh.

“Your first mistake was thinkin’ you could take all three of us on by yourself,” the Driver sneers down at her, stomping down on her one good arm to keep it pinned. “Your second mistake was trying to compensate by having your Blade pick off what you thought were the weaker ones of the bunch. Your third mistake— well, you get the idea.”

Her head is still spinning. Mòrag tries to think, tries to understand what went wrong, but he’s not… entirely wrong. Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid._

She experimentally tugs at her pinned arm, but the axe above her throat twitches and she stops. No— she needs to take a different approach to this, for now.

“Your uniform.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah? What about it?”

“Did you steal it?”

Sharp laughter. “Nope.”

“Then…”

“My buddies and I, we deserted,” he casually says. Mòrag can feel Aegaeon’s ether building up, just like her anger. If she could just buy a little more time…

“The fact that they recruited a girl like _you_ is proof enough of what’s gone wrong with the entire Empire. Now we’ve got a literal child on the throne. Who’s gonna make all the big decisions for the people, huh?! A kid? He’s weak. Just like you. If the citizens of Mor Ardain had half a spine, they’d never accept a brat like him as Emperor.”

No more waiting. She understands, and now she’s prepared enough. All that built-up ether surges into her ruined arm, and she _screams_ in pain as she grabs at the axe with it, stopping it just short of falling upon her throat when the Driver slackens his grip in surprise. He stumbles back, freeing her other arm.

The sharp blade of it digs into her glove but she doesn’t even feel it cutting into her palm when her entire body is already wracked with horrid agony. The axe is heavy, but she’s able to throw it aside, where it clatters loudly to the ground.

Aegaeon takes that window of opportunity to seize the katana and attack the other Blade before it can recover its own weapon, as Mòrag tries to stagger up to her feet, still screaming and clutching her arm.

It feels as though it’s on fire all over again.

“My Lady!” Aegaeon calls for her, desperation at the edges of his voice.

No, no, she already realized it as well, that that brief burst of inhuman energy took too much of his ether, and that Driver’s face is screwed up in rage as he advances towards Mòrag, the intent to kill burning in his beady eyes. But it was all she could think of in that moment.

She sees nothing but blue.

There actually _is_ blue, flames rushing out of the opening of the exhaust duct and stopping all of them in their tracks. That one unconscious rifleman left aside spasms as the fire carelessly swallows him alive.

Mòrag’s screams turn into chokes as she falls to her knees in disbelief. She’s gripping her ruined arm so tightly that the circulation must have been cut off.

And Brighid emerges from the passage, a frightful visage of azure flames. She surveys the scene— of Mòrag on the ground, and Aegaeon in his desperate panic, and the Driver and his Blade beginning to back off.

Her steps are slow and deliberate, in no rush when the wall of flames have them completely cornered. The last thing Mòrag sees before she blacks out is Aegaeon running to her side, the dim evening sky illuminated by Brighid’s fire.

 

* * *

 

She isn’t certain of anything when she comes to, but Aegaeon and Brighid are standing not too far away, conversation muddied and too vague amidst the harsh ringing that persists in the innermost parts of her ears. By instinct, she focuses on their voices in an attempt to listen.

“They’re not dead,” Brighid may or may not be saying. “Miraculously. Hah, I can’t believe you threw someone off a cliff.”

“I had no choice, but to defend her…”

“I’m not blaming you. He landed on an outcropping, anyway. Broken bones are easy to fix.”

Brighid looks straight at her. Mòrag suddenly feels like crying, but she isn’t even sure why. She wriggles her fingers and toes, just to make sure she’s… all there (and of course her right arm doesn’t respond in the way she’d like it to) and blearily stares back at Brighid. Her eyes are so dry. At least the ringing in her ears is beginning to die down.

“Oh, she’s awake. His Majesty will be pleased to hear she made a full recovery,” Brighid dryly says.

“My Lady! Are you alright? It was all my fault, I should not have left you unprotected without my barriers—“

“Aegaeon, stop talking,” Brighid says.

“Okay…”

Mòrag tries to understand what’s going on— she understands it was her own foolish judgment that led to her being pinned with an axe above her throat, and vestiges of that anger begin to rush back in her memory, but now she’s just… too tired to do anything about it. There isn’t anything left to take out her anger on.

This is the infirmary, she realizes. She’s back at the palace.

“You took too much ether from Aegaeon,” Brighid says matter-of-factly. “Essentially… you overheated. It’s an amateur mistake for an amateur Driver.”

Mòrag casts an apologetic look to Aegaeon, but he only nods. He clearly stands by her decision, even if it was supposedly the wrong thing to do. If she hadn’t used that burst of ether to seize the axe blade, it would have fallen upon her throat, but surely there could have been better courses of action to take in that moment.

All Mòrag can do is lie there and listen as Brighid tells her everything she did wrong, just as that Driver had listed off her mistakes. She’s making too many mistakes. Far too many. Not strong enough. Too weak. Etcetera.

“But…” Brighid pauses, and glances at Aegaeon. “You never considered running away, did you?”

“We’ve successfully rounded up the assailants,” Aegaeon chimes in. “Once they’re conscious, they’ll be taken in to be questioned. What that Driver said, about deserting the military… it’s entirely possible there could be more just like them.”

“Yes, well,” Brighid puts a hand to her chin. “Talk of rebellion is the last thing His Majesty needs to deal with right now. The 3rd and 4th Decades will be dispatched to scour the mines and the surrounding area for other insurgents.”

“I’ll go,” Mòrag speaks up, her voice weak and hoarse. “I should… I’m the Special Inquisitor.”

“Not by yourself,” she scoffs. “As commendable as your courage is, I can’t suggest you to foolishly throw yourself at every battle.”

“It’s my _job._ ”

“Dying isn’t.”

A part of her can even understand their reasoning, as loathing as she is to admit it. After all that their father had accomplished with annexing Gormott and expanding Ardainian territory, who could truly believe in this bright-eyed boy would follow that path of military warfare and conquest?

Niall is already talking of a treaty with Uraya, trying to convince the Senate. Their father would have never considered such a thing.

Some people are far too hungry in their need for resources. But they do need them, they really do, and Mòrag suspects that the 3rd and 4th Decades will find actual homeless transients along with any potential insurgents. Maybe there would be overlaps in the two groups.

If only it were so simple as giving everyone a place to live and food to eat and work to do in the capital, just as Aegaeon had suggested before. If only. She grips the clean white sheets with her one good fist, and notices her other hand had been bandaged. Oh... of course. That axe had cut into it. She didn’t even feel it.

She’s still too weak. It’s just a fact.

“Aegaeon. Could I have a word with your Driver, alone?”

Mòrag isn’t even hearing her, but she does watch Aegaeon hesitantly nod then leave the room. Brighid stands by her bed, flames flickering, and she can hear her own breathing quicken in mild fear.

Her body still aches from taking in all that ether she couldn’t handle. It’s nearly reminiscent of what she had felt when she held Brighid’s Core Crystal, she realizes.

Brighid is slowly reaching down with one hand. Mòrag freezes, suddenly unable to move, and she holds her breath as the back of her knuckles brushes against the scarred skin along her jaw. A thin layer of sweat beads at her temples and forehead.

“You’re brave, Mòrag…” Brighid murmurs, frowning. Her voice is much softer now. “So, why…”

“Brighid…?”

“You almost died yesterday. But you weren’t afraid. Aegaeon told me.” Brighid continues to lightly stroke her face with the back of her hand, and Mòrag still can’t breathe. She can’t move. She wants to move, to get away, but her body won’t respond. It’s just like the results of that one sparring session, the day Mòrag was titled Special Inquisitor.

“Bravery, recklessness, what’s the difference?”

Her heart beats so fast that she fears she may pass out again.

“Bri… ghid…” she chokes out, trembling in fear.

She _is_ afraid. Weak. Angry. Brighid likely knows all this. Still, she continues to touch her face, fingertips now running across her cheek.

“I’m not burning you.”

She isn’t. But still, so irrationally, Mòrag wants her to get away. Her vision is beginning to cloud over with azure again, and her breathing is getting faster and faster then— Brighid pulls her hand away and steps back.

“I didn’t burn you.”

She stares at Mòrag for what seems like an eternity, expression inscrutable. Then, finally, she turns and leaves the room and Aegaeon returns to fuss over Mòrag as she stares at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see y'all next year lmao


	6. "I won't burn you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brighid talks to Mòrag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're finally getting to the gay stuff!!!!

Though she would have preferred to dive right back into the investigation, the Emperor himself had ordered Mòrag to take a day off. Truthfully, she sort of suspects he told her that as her brother and not as her liege, but Aegaeon did agree that rest would be beneficial— and Mòrag had no intention of trying to argue with either of them. 

Orders are orders. So. 

The aftereffects of the ether surge finally wear off by the time evening arrives, the next day. She’d been replaying those brief minutes over and over again to review her mistakes over and over again, and all she can see is that Driver’s horrible grin and the axe blade suspended above her throat. 

Then, she sees Brighid arriving to do what she could not, and Mòrag can hear her own screams of pain. 

It was a truly shameful moment. Perhaps, she is not yet fit to be Special Inquisitor with her lack of fortitude, so… 

“Are you okay?” Aegaeon asks for what is probably the twentieth time. 

“I’m fine,” she blandly responds as an automatic reflex.

The streets of Alba Cavanich are quiet at this hour, when people are sleepy after their evening meals. Aegaeon’s striking appearance draws stares, but Mòrag had deliberately chosen not to wear her uniform when she headed out. Someday, maybe, she’ll be widely recognized even without the epaulettes, but right now she’s just a nameless Driver. 

They make their way through Jakolo’s Inn with a greeting nod to the concierge at the front desk and up the stairs, past a few guests milling about in the halls, and to the bathhouses just outside the hot springs. There, Mòrag stops and turns to face Aegaeon. 

“Will you wait for me downstairs?”

Aegaeon wrinkles his brow. “I’d prefer to stay with you.”

“At this hour, only women are allowed in the water.” 

“But…”

“I won’t drown, if that was your concern,” Mòrag says, crossing her arms. “And I’m fairly certain the patrons of this hot spring typically pose no threat to others.”

“Nonetheless, I must always be guarding you.” 

Mòrag can feel the same frustration welling up in her chest— the frustration of insecurity, of weakness, of inadequacy. It must be mirrored in Aegaeon, if his insistence to constantly be breathing down her neck if of any indication. He’s even beginning to appear less enthused than usual, crossing his arms as well. 

“What happened the other day was a failure on my part,” he says. “It’s proof that I still have much room for improvement.” 

That’s… exactly what Mòrag would have said if she were allowed to speak first. Oh, Architect. Aegaeon doesn’t deserve this. She rubs at her forehead and exhales.

It was still her fault. It _is_ her fault. Hers, not Aegaeon’s. 

A tiny seed of doubt plants itself in the back of her thoughts. Mòrag refuses to acknowledge it. 

“My shortcomings as a Driver failed us both, Aegaeon. I should be the one apologizing. But we mustn’t dwell on our mistakes.” 

Aegaeon nods. “We need to train harder.” 

“Right. And trying to follow me into the hot springs won’t compensate for that. Now, am I allowed to enter by myself, or…? Blade or not, I don’t want you watching me in that state of undress.” 

“Oh— o-of course. Have a nice time in the springs, My Lady.” Aegaeon bows his head and walks back. He probably won’t wait downstairs. He’ll probably be loitering around on the walkway or inside the halls of the inn, but it’s good enough. With that, Mòrag heads into the bathhouse, undresses, washes herself, and grabs a towel as she exits out the other side. 

Being away from him makes it easier to put all those troubling thoughts and ideas to the side, for now. 

Surprisingly enough, the water is unoccupied. The evening air is cool but warmed by the steam rising from the water, and the sounds of the city carry over through the gentle breeze. Mòrag sighs out loud, realizing how much tension had been left in her shoulders. She clutches her towel and looks down at her other arm, still hanging uselessly at her side, and slowly tries to raise it. 

After what had happened yesterday, that old pain had been flaring up again recently. It spreads to her fingertips and to the boundaries of the scars along her neck and jaw, leaving a tingling, burning sensation that draws imagery of _blue_ in her mind. Not the calming blue of Aegaeon’s water, but… 

She shakes her head and removes the towel, slowly stepping into the water and softly hissing through her teeth at the sweltering temperature. It’s _quiet._. Rather a shame, as she’d been somewhat hoping there would be other patrons for conversation she could idly eavesdrop on to distract herself. 

Aegaeon would probably enjoy this. His baths tend to take up to an hour, and if it weren’t his compulsion to constantly be protecting Mòrag, he’d probably spend even more time just sitting around in the hot water like an Anlood. 

Mòrag winces as she settles down and the water wraps around her arm. For a second, the pain is _searing_ and she bites her tongue to stop herself from grunting out loud in pain. The gash from grabbing the axe had already been taken care of by a healer to the extent where a bandage isn’t necessary, but the area is still tender.

One more additional scar would hardly make a difference, she bitterly thinks to herself.

“May I join you?” 

She bites down so hard that she tastes copper. 

Her heart races as she turns as quickly as she can while crouching in the water, eyes wide. _Brighid_ is there, towel wrapped around herself, regarding Mòrag with her usual inscrutable look and a slight head-tilt. She taps a foot against the ground when Mòrag doesn’t immediately respond. 

“I— ah, it’s,” Mòrag stammers, lowering herself until the water comes up to her chin. She begins to shuffle backwards, away from the edge. Away from Brighid. “It’s, the facility is free. I mean, public. You don’t— you don’t need to ask… Lady Brighid.” 

“I’ve heard wonderful things about Smùide Hot Springs,” Brighid says, still standing there. “The water is good for your skin.” 

Does she even have to worry about stuff like that when she’s a Blade…? Come to think of it. She’s a _fire_ Blade. Strongest in the Empire or not, water is still a very notable weakness of hers. Mòrag even momentarily forgets about her instinctual fear as she ponders this. 

“The water… it wouldn’t hurt you?” 

“Hot water is more bearable than cold water,” Brighid explains. She unwraps the towel from around herself and Mòrag quickly looks away with a blush that she’d like to blame on the heat of the steam, wrapping her arms around herself rather self-consciously. Because she looks away, she misses the faintly amused smile that Brighid shoots at her, and she also misses the brief grimace of discomfort when Brighid carefully enters the water. 

She sits in the water, leaning with her back against the damp stone. Mòrag is still crouching near the middle of the spring, looking everywhere except at Brighid. 

“Mòrag.”

“Y— yes?” 

“Come sit with me.” 

“Er, this is— I’m, er, comfortable right here. Pardon.”

“I said, come sit with me.” 

A pang of fear strikes her heart and Mòrag finds herself obeying, moving through the water and closing that comfortable gap of distance between herself and Brighid. She swears the water gets even hotter the closer she gets, and then she’s hesitantly sitting right next to her, close enough to see that the water is, in fact, slightly boiling around Brighid. 

Deliberately, she’d chosen to sit on Brighid’s right, so that her scarred arm would be further away.

Her eyes helplessly wander a bit ways up, to her bared Core Crystal and the surrounding skin. When Mòrag realizes what she’s doing, she averts her gaze and tries not to let her jaw tremble. 

“So,” Brighid starts, clearly more relaxed in comparison. “His Majesty said I would find you here.” 

“You were looking for me…?”

“I wanted to talk to you, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.” She leans back and tilts her head up towards the night sky. “No one else is around, Aegaeon won’t bother us… and my power is dampened, while I’m in the water.”

But it’s still very, _very_ hot. Mòrag is sweating pretty badly.

“Well,” she gulps. “What did you want to speak with me about?” 

She can already guess a variety of equally plausible answers to that. Brighid is going to continue scolding her about her actions from yesterday. Brighid wants to ask why she’s Special Inquisitor. Brighid is going to make her feel awful as usual, even if she may not even mean it. Mòrag squeezes her eyes shut in anticipation. 

“I want to know more about you, Mòrag.” 

Mòrag realizes she’s been tensed up into a hunched posture this entire time when she straightens up in surprise. “What?” 

“Would you humor me, please?” 

“I…” she finally looks at Brighid, at her cautious smile and her terrifying flames and her soft skin. She looks absolutely radiant in the water. She could probably boil Mòrag alive within seconds. “I don’t understand?”

“You’re afraid of me,” she says matter-of-factly. “Something happened, right? In regards to your scars.”

Mòrag blanches. Surely her poker face isn’t so terrible– “As I had told you, it was an accident with Titan weaponry…”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

Mòrag’s head is throbbing. Everything feels so surreal, as if she’s watching herself from afar, watching her sinking lower into the water while Brighid subtly scoots closer until Mòrag flinches. Really, she didn’t know why she’d maintained the lie for this long. The truth would have come out eventually, considering Brighid’s keen observational skills— she must have known they were burn scars all along. 

So, not knowing what else to do, Mòrag talks, the words picking up momentum one at a time as she chokes each one out from her tightened throat.

“My mother and father passed away when I was very young. At the time, my uncle had no children of his own, so he took me in with the intention to raise me as his heir…” Steam swirls around her, pulling sweat from her skin. The water is still slightly boiling. Mòrag stares down, unable to make eye contact. “Then Niall was born.” 

“So you lost your right to the throne.”

She shakes her head. “It was never truly my right. I was just a… placeholder, and I was keenly aware of that. Becoming Empress wasn’t my own ambition. I only did what I was told to do.” 

Brighid is sitting even closer now but Mòrag scarcely notices. It still feels as though she’s not even in her own body, even if she’s keenly aware of the intense heat and the sweat dripping down her temples— or it could just be from the steam. Either way. 

She doesn’t even know why she tried to lie, anymore. Was it to protect her own pride? To fool herself into believing it had nothing to do with Brighid? 

Losing her inheritance to the throne meant nothing to her. Failing to awaken Brighid pierced far more deeply. 

“… I couldn’t resonate with you,” she says, her voice so, so small. “Even if I would no longer become Empress, I still had a right to be your Driver, but… but, I lost even that.” 

These are… tears dripping down her cheeks, intermingling with the steam and sweat. She can practically feel Brighid’s gaze sweeping across her scars. 

“So that’s why you went after Aegaeon’s Core Crystal that night. To soothe your own ego.” 

Mòrag wipes a hand across her face. Her vision is blurred. 

“… And it’s why you’re afraid of me,” Brighid quietly says. “I burned you.” 

It’s irrational, and foolish, and nearly childish too, but that’s the simple confirmation of it. Mòrag nods, still rubbing at her eyes and trying to recollect herself. She’s afraid because… because of the flames. Of the pain that left scars on both her body and in her memory. But it’s also of her own failure and inadequacies, things she can’t bear to confront and accept. 

All because of her goddamn ego that she still can’t overcome.

“Do you blame me for your weakness, Mòrag?” 

“No— _no._ I have nobody to blame but myself.” 

The answer seems to satisfy Brighid, in spite of the pain etched in Mòrag’s features and the tears still stubbornly refusing to stop. She’s wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand when Brighid carefully reaches for the other one beneath the water, leaning over _too close too close_ to reach across her lap.

_Too close too close–_

Mòrag flinches as if she’d been shocked through with electricity. She makes a sort of panicked noise and tries to move away from Brighid, but she has a firm grasp on her hand and wrist now, keeping them below the water where her flames are dull and dampened. 

“I’m not burning you— look. I won’t burn you. I won’t burn you,” she murmurs, rubbing Mòrag’s palm with her thumb, careful to avoid touching the area around the wound from the other day.

Gradually, she returns to clarity within her own body, breathing hard and struggling to ground herself back to this very real reality where Brighid is feeling the scars all over her skin, never once attempting to go above the water, sitting so close that their legs nearly touch. She looks down. It’s difficult to see past all the steam and the distortion of the surface. 

“Are you alright, Mòrag?” 

She is. In spite of everything, she can endure this. So she slowly nods, never taking her eyes away from the vague light and shadows distorted in the water. 

“Why are you doing this…?” 

“Hm?”

“I’m not your Driver,” she says, trembling. “You have no reason to bother with me. Your duty is with His Majesty.” 

“But I like you.” 

Brighid says it as if it’s just a simple fact, like she might as well have told Mòrag that the grass is green and the sky is blue and the Titans circle the World Tree. Then, she lets go of Mòrag’s hand, allowing it to drift limply in the water, and draws back to give her the space that she had initially hoped for. 

But now, inexplicably, Mòrag almost wants to tell her to stay where she is. 

This time, she watches as Brighid stands up, her entire body sizzling and steaming when she’s exposed to the cooling air. _She’s beautiful_ , a tiny voice in the furthest recesses of Mòrag’s mind whispers, but she barely hears it. Brighid sighs in relief as she exits the hot spring. Her flames are already returning to their usual brilliance, impossibly stunning in their illumination at this evening hour.

She turns to look down at Mòrag. 

“I’ll tell His Majesty that you’ve made a remarkably fast recovery. Let’s talk again sometime, Mòrag.” 

All Mòrag can think of to do is dumbly nod. She watches Brighid go back into the bathhouse, and stays exactly where she is in the water even though her skin is red from sitting in the spring for too long. The pain in her arm is dull, but not so wrenching as it had been before. 

Maybe… she really could… 

Well, she still needs to focus on her duties as Special Inquisitor. Her personal problems with Brighid shouldn’t be such a priority, she lies to herself. 

The walk back to the Palace is as quiet as it had been when they left for Jakolo’s Inn. If Aegaeon had seen Brighid come and go, he doesn’t say as such. Maybe both of them had come to a mutual understanding that it shouldn’t be brought up. 

“The hot springs have had a positive effect on you, My Lady,” Aegaeon pipes up when they’re getting close to the plaza. “You seem to be in a much better mood than you were earlier.”

“Is that right?” Mòrag absentmindedly says, thinking of that sensation of Brighid touching her hand beneath the water. She couldn’t really feel it, in all honesty, thanks to the scars. For some reason, she somewhat regrets that. 

“Yes,” he nods, daring to smile, even if it’s an awkwardly tilted one. “And, if I may be bold enough to admit, I purchased some sweets for myself while I was waiting for you.” 

“That’s good, Aegaeon. You’re always allowed to indulge yourself.” 

“You’re much too kind. I thought to save some for you, but… ah… they were so tasty, I couldn’t help myself…” 

“It’s alright.” 

“Although, I had time to think to myself, and I had come to a curious thought…” Aegaeon furrows his brow, and Mòrag sighs with the anticipation of another exhausting session of opening up her most vulnerable points for discussion. And so soon after she’d just been able to overcome _something_ with Brighid. 

Aegaeon stops. Mòrag does, as well. Very seriously, he asks: “Do Nopon float?” 

Mòrag stares at him for a long, long moment. “... I don’t know.” 

“In water, or the Cloud Sea…”

“I really don’t know, Aegaeon.” 

For the rest of their stroll back to the palace, Aegaeon continues to ask inane questions about Nopon, and Mòrag supposes it’s better than the alternative.


End file.
